New Grub Street (56 page)

'It's the fault of women in general,' remarked Reardon.

'So it is, but it comes out with delicious naivete in the
working classes. Now, educated people like to read of scenes that
are familiar to them, though I grant you that the picture must be
idealised if you're to appeal to more than one in a thousand. The
working classes detest anything that tries to represent their daily
life. It isn't because that life is too painful; no, no; it's
downright snobbishness. Dickens goes down only with the best of
them, and then solely because of his strength in farce and his
melodrama.'

Presently the three went out together, and had dinner at an a la
mode beef shop. Mr Sykes ate little, but took copious libations of
porter at twopence a pint. When the meal was over he grew
taciturn.

'Can you walk westwards?' Biffen asked.

'I'm afraid not, afraid not. In fact I have an appointment at
two—at Aldgate station.'

They parted from him.

'Now he'll go and soak till he's unconscious,' said Biffen.
'Poor fellow! Pity he ever earns anything at all. The workhouse
would be better, I should think.'

'No, no! Let a man drink himself to death rather. I have a
horror of the workhouse. Remember the clock at Marylebone I used to
tell you about.'

'Unphilosophic. I don't think I should be unhappy in the
workhouse. I should have a certain satisfaction in the thought that
I had forced society to support me. And then the absolute freedom
from care! Why, it's very much the same as being a man of
independent fortune.'

It was about a week after this, midway in November, that there
at length came to Manville Street a letter addressed in Amy's hand.
It arrived at three one afternoon; Reardon heard the postman, but
he had ceased to rush out on every such occasion, and to-day he was
feeling ill. Lying upon the bed, he had just raised his head
wearily when he became aware that someone was mounting to his room.
He sprang up, his face and neck flushing.

This time Amy began 'Dear Edwin'; the sight of those words made
his brain swim.

'You must, of course, have heard [she wrote] that my uncle John
has left me ten thousand pounds. It has not yet come into my
possession, and I had decided that I would not write to you till
that happened, but perhaps you may altogether misunderstand my
silence.

'If this money had come to me when you were struggling so hard
to earn a living for us, we should never have spoken the words and
thought the thoughts which now make it so difficult for me to write
to you. What I wish to say is that, although the property is
legally my own, I quite recognise that you have a right to share in
it. Since we have lived apart you have sent me far more than you
could really afford, believing it your duty to do so; now that
things are so different I wish you, as well as myself, to benefit
by the change.

'I said at our last meeting that I should be quite prepared to
return to you if you took that position at Croydon. There is now no
need for you to pursue a kind of work for which you are quite
unfitted, and I repeat that I am willing to live with you as
before. If you will tell me where you would like to make a new home
I shall gladly agree. I do not think you would care to leave London
permanently, and certainly I should not.

'Please to let me hear from you as soon as possible. In writing
like this I feel that I have done what you expressed a wish that I
should do. I have asked you to put an end to our separation, and I
trust that I have not asked in vain.

'Yours always,

The letter fell from his hand. It was such a letter as he might
have expected, but the beginning misled him, and as his agitation
throbbed itself away he suffered an encroachment of despair which
made him for a time unable to move or even think.

His reply, written by the dreary twilight which represented
sunset, ran thus.

'Dear Amy,—I thank you for your letter, and I appreciate your
motive in writing it. But if you feel that you have "done what I
expressed a wish that you should do," you must have strangely
misunderstood me.

'The only one thing that I wished was, that by some miracle your
love for me might be revived. Can I persuade myself that this is
the letter of a wife who desires to return to me because in her
heart she loves me? If that is the truth you have been most
unfortunate in trying to express yourself.

'You have written because it seemed your duty to do so. But,
indeed, a sense of duty such as this is a mistaken one. You have no
love for me, and where there is no love there is no mutual
obligation in marriage. Perhaps you think that regard for social
conventions will necessitate your living with me again. But have
more courage; refuse to act falsehoods; tell society it is base and
brutal, and that you prefer to live an honest life.

'I cannot share your wealth, dear. But as you have no longer
need of my help—as we are now quite independent of each other—I
shall cease to send the money which hitherto I have considered
yours. In this way I shall have enough, and more than enough, for
my necessities, so that you will never have to trouble yourself
with the thought that I am suffering privations. At Christmas I go
to Croydon, and I will then write to you again.

'For we may at all events be friendly. My mind is relieved from
ceaseless anxiety on your account. I know now that you are safe
from that accursed poverty which is to blame for all our
sufferings. You I do not blame, though I have sometimes done so. My
own experience teaches me how kindness can be embittered by
misfortune. Some great and noble sorrow may have the effect of
drawing hearts together, but to struggle against destitution, to be
crushed by care about shillings and sixpences—that must always
degrade.

'No other reply than this is possible, so I beg you not to write
in this way again. Let me know if you go to live elsewhere. I hope
Willie is well, and that his growth is still a delight and
happiness to you.

That one word 'dear,' occurring in the middle of the letter,
gave him pause as he read the lines over. Should he not obliterate
it, and even in such a way that Amy might see what he had done? His
pen was dipped in the ink for that purpose, but after all he held
his hand. Amy was still dear to him, say what he might, and if she
noted the word—if she pondered over it—

A street gas lamp prevented the room from becoming absolutely
dark. When he had closed the envelope he lay down on his bed again,
and watched the flickering yellowness upon the ceiling. He ought to
have some tea before going to the hospital, but he cared so little
for it that the trouble of boiling water was too great.

The flickering light grew fainter; he understood at length that
this was caused by fog that had begun to descend. The fog was his
enemy; it would be wise to purchase a respirator if this hideous
weather continued, for sometimes his throat burned, and there was a
rasping in his chest which gave disagreeable admonition.

He fell asleep for half an hour, and on awaking he was feverish,
as usual at this time of day. Well, it was time to go to his work.
Ugh! That first mouthful of fog!

The rooms which Milvain had taken for himself and his sisters
were modest, but more expensive than their old quarters. As the
change was on his account he held himself responsible for the extra
outlay. But for his immediate prospects this step would have been
unwarrantable, as his earnings were only just sufficient for his
needs on the previous footing. He had resolved that his marriage
must take place before Christmas; till that event he would draw
when necessary upon the girls' little store, and then repay them
out of Marian's dowry.

'And what are we to do when you are married?' asked Dora.

The question was put on the first evening of their being all
under the same roof. The trio had had supper in the girls'
sitting-room, and it was a moment for frank conversation. Dora
rejoiced in the coming marriage; her brother had behaved
honourably, and Marian, she trusted, would be very happy,
notwithstanding disagreement with her father, which seemed
inevitable. Maud was by no means so well pleased, though she
endeavoured to wear smiles. It looked to her as if Jasper had been
guilty of a kind of weakness not to be expected in him. Marian, as
an individual, could not be considered an appropriate wife for such
a man with such a future; and as for her five thousand pounds, that
was ridiculous. Had it been ten—something can be made of ten
thousand; but a paltry five! Maud's ideas on such subjects had
notably expanded of late, and one of the results was that she did
not live so harmoniously with her sister as for the first few
months of their London career.

'I have been thinking a good deal about that,' replied Jasper to
the younger girl's question. He stood with his back to the fire and
smoked a cigarette. 'I thought at first of taking a flat; but then
a flat of the kind I should want would be twice the rent of a large
house. If we have a house with plenty of room in it you might come
and live with us after a time. At first I must find you decent
lodgings in our neighbourhood.'

'You show a good deal of generosity, Jasper,' said Maud, 'but
pray remember that Marian isn't bringing you five thousand a
year.'

'I regret to say that she isn't. What she brings me is five
hundred a year for ten years—that's how I look at it. My own income
will make it something between six or seven hundred at first, and
before long probably more like a thousand. I am quite cool and
collected. I understand exactly where I am, and where I am likely
to be ten years hence. Marian's money is to be spent in obtaining a
position for myself. At present I am spoken of as a "smart young
fellow," and that kind of thing; but no one would offer me an
editorship, or any other serious help. Wait till I show that I have
helped myself and hands will be stretched to me from every side.
'Tis the way of the world. I shall belong to a club; I shall give
nice, quiet little dinners to selected people; I shall let it be
understood by all and sundry that I have a social position.
Thenceforth I am quite a different man, a man to be taken into
account. And what will you bet me that I don't stand in the
foremost rank of literary reputabilities ten years hence?'

'I doubt whether six or seven hundred a year will be enough for
this.'

'If not, I am prepared to spend a thousand. Bless my soul! As if
two or three years wouldn't suffice to draw out the mean qualities
in the kind of people I am thinking of! I say ten, to leave myself
a great margin.'

'Marian approves this?'

'I haven't distinctly spoken of it. But she approves whatever I
think good.'

The girls laughed at his way of pronouncing this.

'And let us just suppose that you are so unfortunate as to
fail?'

'There's no supposing it, unless, of course, I lose my health. I
am not presuming on any wonderful development of powers. Such as I
am now, I need only to be put on the little pedestal of a decent
independence and plenty of people will point fingers of admiration
at me. You don't fully appreciate this. Mind, it wouldn't do if I
had no qualities. I have the qualities; they only need bringing
into prominence. If I am an unknown man, and publish a wonderful
book, it will make its way very slowly, or not at all. If I, become
a known man, publish that very same book, its praise will echo over
both hemispheres. I should be within the truth if I had said "a
vastly inferior book," But I am in a bland mood at present. Suppose
poor Reardon's novels had been published in the full light of
reputation instead of in the struggling dawn which was never to
become day, wouldn't they have been magnified by every critic? You
have to become famous before you can secure the attention which
would give fame.'

He delivered this apophthegm with emphasis, and repeated it in
another form.

'You have to obtain reputation before you can get a fair hearing
for that which would justify your repute. It's the old story of the
French publisher who said to Dumas: "Make a name, and I'll publish
anything you write." "But how the diable," cries the author, "am I
to make a name if I can't get published?" If a man can't hit upon
any other way of attracting attention, let him dance on his head in
the middle of the street; after that he may hope to get
consideration for his volume of poems. I am speaking of men who
wish to win reputation before they are toothless. Of course if your
work is strong, and you can afford to wait, the probability is that
half a dozen people will at last begin to shout that you have been
monstrously neglected, as you have. But that happens when you are
hoary and sapless, and when nothing under the sun delights
you.'

He lit a new cigarette.

'Now I, my dear girls, am not a man who can afford to wait.
First of all, my qualities are not of the kind which demand the
recognition of posterity. My writing is for to-day, most distinctly
hodiernal. It has no value save in reference to to-day. The
question is: How can I get the eyes of men fixed upon me? The
answer: By pretending I am quite independent of their gaze. I shall
succeed, without any kind of doubt; and then I'll have a medal
struck to celebrate the day of my marriage.'

But Jasper was not quite so well assured of the prudence of what
he was about to do as he wished his sisters to believe. The impulse
to which he had finally yielded still kept its force; indeed, was
stronger than ever since the intimacy of lovers' dialogue had
revealed to him more of Marian's heart and mind. Undeniably he was
in love. Not passionately, not with the consuming desire which
makes every motive seem paltry compared with its own satisfaction;
but still quite sufficiently in love to have a great difficulty in
pursuing his daily tasks. This did not still the voice which bade
him remember all the opportunities and hopes he was throwing aside.
Since the plighting of troth with Marian he had been over to
Wimbledon, to the house of his friend and patron Mr Horace Barlow,
and there he had again met with Miss Rupert. This lady had no power
whatever over his emotions, but he felt assured that she regarded
him with strong interest. When he imagined the possibility of
contracting a marriage with Miss Rupert, who would make him at once
a man of solid means, his head drooped, and he wondered at his
precipitation. It had to be confessed that he was the victim of a
vulgar weakness. He had declared himself not of the first order of
progressive men.